Orders and Conflicts
by FourSilverArrows
Summary: A simple mission to a vineyard ends up with Sarge and Littlejohn running for their lives and the others desperately trying to find them. Warning for violence. REVISED APRIL 2008
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I use German in this story. All words was taken from a book that was for teaching German, but I have since lost the name of the book. If you recognize the book, please let me know so I can credit. Sorry, no harm intended.  
Warnings: language  
Revised: April 2, 2008

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Chapter 1:

The big man tried to calm his sergeant before the worst could happen.

'Wait, that's already happened,' thought Littlejohn as he wiped the sweat from his eyes and squinted out into the semi darkness looking for Krauts.

Another half-whispered word escaped his Sarge and Littlejohn clamped a large hand over his leader's mouth to quiet his rambling.

His other hand clutched his rifle close, his eyes and ears straining in the false dawn. He ignored the pretty view of a half-grown vineyard and kept his mind on business.

Like he should have three hours ago, back when he should have been following orders and it would have made a difference.

The rest of their little group, his friends, was gone. If they were dead or on the run, Littlejohn didn't know.

The only thing he did know, was sure of, was that there was no help nearby.

His Sarge struggled again and the big private leaned in close to whisper in the man's ear, his face brushing against the wild blond hair. "Easy, Sarge. Krauts."

Littlejohn doubted that it was his voice that made the Sarge go so still so suddenly. It was the word 'Krauts,' a word that was branded into every American soldier's subconscious that fought the German war machine. It was that and the fear of becoming a prisoner of war.

With that one word, Sarge became still and his harsh breathing softened.

Their current cover was paltry and the late moon was about to peek out from behind its grey curtain.

"Saddle-up," whispered Sarge, his hands searching for his lost Thompson.

Littlejohn couldn't tell if his leader was coherent or not, but the order sounded like a good one to him.

He slung his rifle over his right shoulder, and with both of his large hands, hauled Sarge to his feet.

Sarge's steely blue eyes opened slightly to look blankly at Littlejohn's chest.

"Sarge, you in there?" asked the big private as he let loose with his left hand to check the field dressing on Sergeant Saunders' temple and neck.

The bandages were becoming moist with blood, but Littlejohn could do nothing more. He'd already used up both of their personal medical kits.

"Sarge, we gotta go now. Come on."

The difference in their heights made it a little difficult to help the addled man along. After trying several holds, Littlejohn settled for reaching around Saunders' back and grabbing his web belt.

'Dumb ox,' ran through Littlejohn's head as his Sarge staggered on the uneven ground. 'Always the screw-up. Even a goldbrick like Kirby does a better job. It was just a routine patrol.'

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

It was just a simple patrol to see if the Germans were moving in to fortify the nearby winery and its surrounding vineyards. There had been nothing complicated or unfamiliar about their orders or the mission.

They drew their supplies and headed out in the morning, Sarge walking near the front of their ragged line as they crossed the uneven ground.

Every once in a while, Sarge would turn to look at Littlejohn with a searching look and then go back to sweeping the area for enemy movement.

Kirby quietly ribbed Littlejohn about the Sarge's frequent looks, but Littlejohn knew it was mainly because he was carrying the radio on this trip out. In the field, the radio was a very important part of staying alive. The tall private knew his leader was just keeping an eye on the radio and not being overly concerned about his performance as a soldier.

Caje was on point, ahead of Sarge. Most of the time, Littlejohn couldn't even see the Louisianan Cajun as he glided from cover to cover. The man moved like a cat and seemed to have the stalking instincts of one as well.

After Caje and Sarge was the new guy, Molrey. He was quiet from the moment he stepped out of the jeep that brought him to K Company. Littlejohn couldn't remember the guy saying more than a few muttered 'yessirs' and 'nosirs.' No matter how many times Sarge told him that he wasn't a 'sir.'

Doc was next, walking with his medical bag slung over his shoulder. Like Sarge, he also turned occasionally to search his fellow soldiers with a frown. Most likely to make sure his wound-prone friends were still all in one piece.

Behind Littlejohn was the goldbrick of the group—Kirby. The man was a constant bundle of energy and yet he would talk a solid month of Sundays to get out of the most trivial and routine of duties. He'd suckered most of the squad at some point or another, including Sarge. Littlejohn was sure that the victories over Sarge were mainly due to Sarge picking his battles with the hardheaded Kirby. When they did actually get into a fight about something, it was heard for miles. It probably scared any nearby Germans.

Littlejohn guessed that Sarge just didn't want to invest all of his energy in fighting with Kirby when he had a job to do.

Sarge held up his hand and the men stopped as Caje slunk out of the undergrowth and back to Saunders. The others kept their eyes open as Sarge pulled out his worn and torn map of the area and consulted with the Cajun.

They started again when Sarge's left arm motioned them forward.

The patrol was quiet. There were no Germans in sight. They didn't see any French civilians. The main sounds were their own footsteps and the rattle of their equipment as they moved.

It seemed that not even the wildlife wanted to move in the stillness.

When they reached the openness of the vineyard land, Sarge motioned them all down.

Littlejohn could see Sarge's camouflaged helmet turn back and forth as he swept the area with a practiced eye.

It was a lot of ground to look at with rows after rows of young vines trying to reach up to the sun. Looming in the background was the large winery building that showed evidence of mortar shells and fire.

Sarge turned to look at his men again as he bit his lower lip in thought.

"What do you think, Sarge?" whispered Caje in his thick accent as he returned to kneel down beside Saunders.

"Don't know, lotta ground," replied Sarge softly. His head turned again to the large building as he reached into his field jacket to dig out his binoculars. He carefully slung his Thompson over his right shoulder as he took a close look at the winery and its windows.

There was nothing to see but the old damage and stacks of old wine barrels near the main entrance.

Sarge handed the field glasses to Caje and slouched forward on his elbows to think.

"Seems empty."

"Yeap." Saunders looked back at Littlejohn and the others for a moment.

Caje lowered the binoculars and let amusement touch his dark eyes. "Let me guess, you gonna go check it out?"

Sarge barely nodded.

It was something that both warmed the hearts of the Sarge's men and scared them. Nine times out of ten, Sarge would place himself in danger first when he was unsure of a situation. He'd keep his men back until he had more information on the enemy or the circumstances.

"Caje, go down this first row and keep watch on that entrance with the binoculars. You see anything, anything at all, you get back to Littlejohn and Doc on the double." Sarge turned as he smoothly unslung the Thompson to rest familiarly in his right hand. "Littlejohn, stay here with Doc and keep that radio under cover."

He looked back at the building and bit his lip again.

"Kirby."

"Yeah?" responded Kirby with a fervent tone to his voice. Kirby was a goldbrick, but a good BAR man to have at your back when things got hot. He'd lay his life down for the squad.

"Kirby, you take Molrey and set up behind cover over in those trees to the right. I get into anything down there, I want you to cover the pull back. If there are Krauts in there, the lieutenant has to know as quickly as possible."

Doc's worried eyes settled on Sarge and Sarge looked up. Since Doc had joined them, he'd become an important part of the squad. The more he saw of battle and of his fellow soldiers fighting, the more he seemed to understand them and what they said without speaking.

Sarge was no exception.

"You want us to leave ya?" Doc asked in his soft Southern voice.

Sarge canted his head to the side and lowered his eyes to recheck his Thompson. "The lieutenant needs to know."

Doc moved forward to speak to Saunders again, but was cut off with an upraised hand. "Doc, leave it. Stay here with Littlejohn. Now, Kirby, Caje, Molrey, get goin'."

They quickly took up their positions as Sarge belly crawled to the young vines that would give him some cover as he made his way to the building.

"I don't like this, Littlejohn," whispered Doc.

Littlejohn snorted, his large face caught between concern and duty. "I don't either, but you know Sarge."

Doc nodded and kept his leader in sight for as long as he could before the familiar figure was hidden by the rows.

It wasn't long before Caje came back to Doc and Littlejohn in a crouching run and breathing heavily. "Krauts," was all he said. All he needed to say as they heard the chatter of Sarge's Thompson in the distance.

A flurry of gunfire answered the Sarge.

"Move! Let's get to Kirby and Molrey," whispered Caje in a harsh voice in his sudden anxiety.

"But—"

"Doc, you know what the Sarge said. Go! Go!"

Caje held his rifle in one hand and used his other to jerk Doc up by his collar. "Come on! Littlejohn!"

Littlejohn hadn't taken his eyes off the big shape of the building as Caje tried to get Doc in motion.

"Littlejohn!"

When the big man slowly rose from the ground, it was good enough for Caje and he turned back to half pushing and half herding the softhearted medic in front of him to the safety of Kirby and Molrey.

It wasn't the first time they had to abandon one of their own and it probably wouldn't be the last, but Littlejohn stood frozen after his initial move to go with Caje and Doc.

He had a bad feeling in his gut that almost made him sick.

The Sarge wasn't coming back from this one.

The familiar silk camouflaged helmet and slouching walk of his leader would be gone in a blaze of bullets if something weren't done.

Littlejohn moved out down the row of vines almost without thought. The radio on his back forgotten and the mission was pushed away.

When the big man finally reached the front of the winery, he could see Saunders behind the dubious cover of the old wine barrels.

Krauts were firing from the main door and two of the top windows of the place, keeping Sarge in tight with his cover. He leaned forward only to return fire to keep the enemy honest.

From the end of the row, Littlejohn stared at Saunders with wide eyes, not knowing how to help get the man out of his pinned position. Even in the middle of a firefight, Saunders seemed to sense eyes on his back and turned quickly with his Thompson at the ready.

Only to find his radioman had disobeyed orders.

Even over the distance, Littlejohn could see the disappointment in the way his Sarge slumped back against his wooden protection.

With a start, Littlejohn put a hand over his shoulder and felt the weight of the radio for the first time since his gut feeling. It didn't take long for a deep flush to creep up his neck and over his large face.

"I forgot," he mouthed at his sergeant. "I forgot."

All Saunders did was lift his left hand weakly and motion him away. Back to the others and retreat.

Caught between his duty to contact Hanley and his duty to help his Sarge, all Littlejohn did was lay at the foot of the vines with his mouth open.

Sarge motioned him back with more force, his movements starting to take on his forceful personality. He was starting to recover from the surprise of seeing his radioman out of position and disobeying orders.

Littlejohn considered it, he really did. The look on Sarge's face was turning thunderous. When they did get out of here, he was going to get an earful of Sarge's speech about following orders.

And that was if he was lucky.

Shifting his position, Littlejohn took his eyes from his angry NCO and looked at the enemy soldiers in the winery.

All or nothing.

He couldn't leave Sarge.

Without taking his eyes off the upper windows, Littlejohn put down his rifle and grabbed his first grenade. Measuring the distance with a veteran eye, he gathered his large body. Pulling the pin, he popped up from behind the vines, let the grenade sail on its way, and then let himself drop back down behind the dubious cover.

It was a perfect throw.

Littlejohn appreciated the power of his own arm until the most amazing thing happened.

It hit the helmet of one of the soldiers in the window and bounced right back out.

In dismay, Littlejohn watched as the grenade landed near Saunders' doubtful cover.

He watched as Sarge was caught between possibly catching shrapnel from the grenade and catching slugs from the enemy guns that had him pinned. In the end, Saunders just made himself as small as possible and hoped the old wood stopped whatever came his way.

The grenade exploded in a burst of noise and dirt.

It was obvious from the way Sarge fell back from the wine barrels that he was hit.

That's when all conscious thought stopped for the bighearted giant of the squad as his heart thundered over the sound of the enemy guns.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

The medic and the scout ran as fast as they could between the rows of vines, trying to keep out of sight of the main building and get back to Kirby and Molrey.

Caje was in the lead, his rifle held across his chest as his legs pumped. He was torn between getting out of the relative openness of the fields and making sure he stayed with Doc and Littlejohn in case something happened.

With Sarge gone, it was left to Caje to be in charge of the men and he didn't want to have to explain what happened if they were killed on his watch.

Doc was not as nimble on his feet as Caje, but he was no slouch when it came to running from a firefight. It wasn't a sign of cowardice that he ran. Doc was following orders, even if he didn't agree with them. Orders that needed to followed to the letter so that Sarge would know where they were when he managed to get himself out of the mess down at the winery.

Doc tried not to think too hard about Sarge or his own medic tendencies might slow him down. They were all injury prone in this damn war, but Sarge seemed to have more than his fair share of the pain. Most likely, from his ability to always be in the thick of the action.

The medic tripped over a clump of hard dirt and almost went down. He put out his left hand and caught himself before he ended up facedown on the ground. Breathing heavily, he smelled the fertile dirt and waited for the question from Littlejohn, but it never came.

Looking over his shoulder, he didn't see the big man anywhere. A burning fear began deep in his guts.

"Caje," Doc tried to yell out. His dry throat hurt from breathing through his mouth during the run. He worked up some spit and tried again as he pushed up from the ground. "Caje!"

Caje had gone a good deal of distance since Doc's fall. The shout was faint and the scout turned his dark eyes back to see Doc with his hands on his knees.

"Come on, Doc!" They didn't have time for breaks or breathers. If the Krauts decided to recon the area . . .

The medic flung out a hand vaguely at his surroundings. "Littlejohn!"

Caje's brow creased as he looked around. No Littlejohn. If Caje was a cussing man, he would have been sorely tempted to indulge right there in the middle of the vines.

The Cajun knew Littlejohn had looked reluctant to leave the Sarge. They had all been reluctant, but Littlejohn sometimes let his heart overtake his brain. He should have made sure the big man was in front of him when they left for the trees.

There was nothing Caje could do now; Sarge was expecting them to be in the trees as backup if he managed to get out of the line of fire at the winery.

"Come on, Doc!"

"Littlejohn and the radio?" Doc was beginning to look stubborn, about to mutiny to go back for the other two that faced an unknown number of the enemy.

The Cajun didn't need this right now. He shook his head sharply. "Nothing we can do. Let's get back to Kirby and Molrey," said Caje with his Louisiana accent getting thicker with stress.

Doc looked back for a moment more, his clear eyes trying to find a way where there was none. In the end, neither one liked it, but they kept moving.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

The unmistakable sounds of war caused Kirby to poke his head around the tree he was currently using as a bodyguard from Kraut bullets. "Hey, kid! You see anything from over there?"

Molrey shook his head before he realized that Kirby wasn't looking at him to see his movement. "Nosir," he replied in a mild tone.

Kirby twisted his top lip in distaste at the 'sir.' "Look, kid, how many times has Sarge got to tell you? We work for a livin', so quit calling us all sir."

Molrey didn't respond to the dig from his sometimes-volatile partner. It was best to stay out of Kirby's way when he was excited.

And right now, Kirby was so excited he was almost vibrating in expectation of action.

Kirby didn't notice the kid's lack of response as he tried to pierce the tangle of green and brown of the fields to see if trouble was coming their way. He shifted the BAR and gave it an absent, loving pat.

If trouble was coming, he and his baby were ready.

"Molrey, as long as you don't dope off, we're in a good spot. And don't shoot Doc, Caje and Littlejohn when they show up. Or Sarge. We'll never hear the end of it."

Molrey just kept his mouth shut.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Without thinking, Littlejohn stripped off all of his gear and pushed it under the nearest grapevines. The only things he kept was his rifle, his helmet and his remaining grenade as he knelt on his knees and tried to see if Sarge was still alive.

Littlejohn wasn't thinking of the Krauts.

He wasn't thinking of Caje or Doc or Kirby or Molrey.

The big man had blown his Sarge up and now he was going to make it right, even if it killed him.

Littlejohn saw movement from the lump behind the barrels. A hand fluttered against the ground, pushing against the dirt, and then went still again.

It was enough to give Littlejohn hope that he hadn't just killed his leader.

Without giving himself time to think about the stupidity of running right out into the field of fire, Littlejohn pushed his six foot, six inch frame off the ground and lumbered as fast as he could.

There were shouts in German that sounded like a cross between orders and curses, but he had his eyes on the barrels and was determined to make it.

Littlejohn felt the burn across his upper left arm as he stumbled over debris from a previous fight. He hunched even more into himself and kept running for his target.

There was a hitch in his step as another bullet took a plug out of his right boot heel. He regained his balance and kept on with his numbed foot cutting his speed even more.

After what felt like years, he made the barrels and fell to his knees beside the man he couldn't leave behind.

Littlejohn stayed low as more rounds whined around the small barrier and tried to check for wounds on the Sarge. He could see small peppered tears on the left side of the Sarge's uniform from the grenade blast and wooden splinters.

'Littlejohn, you are in it but deep,' the big man thought as he carefully turned Saunders on his back. 'He's gonna kill you. Or make you dig for a month.' He wasn't sure what would be worse, the digging or the Sarge's disappointment in him.

He didn't notice when the Sarge's patterned helmet rolled off to rest by the shredded wood. His eyes were too busy looking at all the blood. There was blood running down the NCO's neck and on his left temple. The left side of his face was a wash of red and contrasted clearly against the blond's light hair.

Littlejohn wiped his hand across the blood trying to separate it from the wounds. The ones he found didn't look bad, but they were losing a lot of blood.

A shout made him look away from the wounded man to see Krauts trying to set up a machine gun in one of the empty windows closest to their position. If they set that up and let loose on them . . . the old wood would be as much protection as newspaper print.

Littlejohn reached under the Sarge and got a handful of his battered jacket. With his other hand, he slung his rifle and the Tompson around his neck for safekeeping.

If he though he was in trouble now, just let him lose the Sarge's beloved Tommy gun.

With a prayer on his lips and a thought about what happened the last time he did this, he heaved his last grenade at the building. He was dragging Saunders before the explosion came.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

The first explosion was before they reached Kirby's position. Caje pulled up long enough for Doc to catch up. They both turned to look at the winery and saw smoke.

"Littlejohn," said Caje in a flat tone. "Sarge is gonna kill him if he survives."

Doc nodded. "That or he'll be digging until the end of the war."

They started running again and ignored the second blast when it came.

The trees were finally within reach and it only made them dig a little deeper to get a little more speed.

It was hard to say who was more surprised when Caje and Doc was suddenly nose-to-nose with a BAR and a rifle.

Kirby gave a half grunt, only half reaching for the trigger since he had spotted Caje's head bobbing in the field a moment ago. "This is for the birds! What is goin' on over there?"

"Littlejohn not followin' orders," responded Caje as he threw himself down on the ground and gasped for breath.

Doc flopped down by Molrey, also gasping as he held his ribs. "I don't know if the explosions are good news or not."

Kirby frowned. "What about the radio? We gotta call the Lieutenant."

Caje gave him a disgusted look. "Littlejohn has it. Back there with all the explosions."

All four men looked back at the distant winery building.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Surprisingly, the side of the big building had no windows. Littlejohn noticed this odd fact as he was dragging his sergeant to better cover from the machine gun.

No bullets tried to cut them down, so the big man took a moment after reaching the solid wall to peek back.

His wondering eyes lit up as he realized that his aim had gotten better with his last grenade.

A German body hung from the machine gun window, his helmet gone and dark blood on his skin. In the background, there was movement inside as the Krauts tried to salvage the large gun for another try.

If Littlejohn was going to get his NCO out of there, now was the time.

As much as Sarge hated being carried or helped when he was wounded, Littlejohn had little choice in the matter. He dragged the limp man up and over his shoulder and started trudging for the trees and help.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

The Germans were, for the moment, a small compliment sent to watch the winery for the enemy and hold the high ground if necessary.

As usual, the reasons for the need were not entirely clear to the men currently staying in the old building, but they were doing their job.

It had been a very mind-numbing and irritating assignment right up until there was movement near the barrels.

Their leader was excited to see some action after nearly a week of routine monotony, repetitive hourly radio checks and listening to his restless men.

They were calm at first when they saw the enemy soldier on the winery grounds. It was but one man and he was in a bad position that offered little defense.

The Germans even chatted as they kept the man pinned down. Their officer ground his teeth in annoyance at the sound. It was a bad habit that his men had formed over the tedious week and, in the officer's opinion, it was unprofessional. He would have to break them of the habit when he had the time.

"Wie geht es Ihrer Schwester?" asked Lugwig of his friend Wilhelm as they leaned against the wooden wall under their window.

Wilhelm knew what prompted the question from Lugwig about his sister, Hilda. Lugwig had been with him when he had last seen his little sister. The little sister that was now all grown up with demure eyes and soft curls that fell across her shoulders.

With a smile in his eyes, Wilhelm responded, "Wie man's nimmt."

It really would depend how Hilda was doing since the main factor would be if her brother could convince the, as she put it, 'the strong and handsome one,' to come to their next family reunion in a few months.

After a moment's thought, the meaning became clear to Lugwig and a slight blush formed across his high cheek bones.

To distract Wilhelm's knowing attention from his discomfort, Lugwig raised his head slightly to look at the trapped soldier on the ground.

And was surprised when a hard object bounced off his helmet and back out the window.

Wilhelm shouted something unintelligible and then pulled Lugwig low to the floor as an explosion erupted outside.

They were both back up and looked through the aftermath to see what had happened and were surprised by the specter of a very large man charging into the dust and debris with only a rifle in his hands.

Wilhelm muttered something about the man being crazy and then their leader was shouting for them all to shoot the idiot before he could use another grenade. There were curses mixed in with the orders as the big enemy soldier moved more quickly than expected.

The only evidence the Germans had of touching the man with their gunfire was when the big man stumbled as his foot was knocked sideways. He limped slightly, but continued to the pinned down man amongst the barrels.

Their leader cursed more, kicking the nearest man over to land on his butt with a rush of expelled air.

He cursed their aim, he cursed their manhood and he cursed their family names. At the same time, he was trying to get a good look at the rotten wooden barrels to see what could be done about the two men hiding there.

Lugwig's sweet blush was gone. Now his face was flushed with anger . . . at his leader.

Wilhelm, being older and wiser, put a hand on his young friend's arm. Hilda would not be pleased if Lugwig survived the war only to be taken away for discipline after attacking an officer.

"Glauben Kann ich ihm nicht," muttered Lugwig as he allowed his friend to pull him back. He really couldn't believe this man he was supposed to follow into battle.

The officer wanted his men to be almost perfect soldiers, but his leadership was lacking in many ways. And when his lacks made a mess, their officer's first response was to verbally abuse them. Sometimes it went farther than verbal abuse.

Wilhelm nodded sympathetically. Not all officers were like this one. Some understood that, in war, men needed to be able to depend on each other to survive. Leaders needed to depend on and trust his men and his men needed to be loyal and have confidence in their leader. It was a symbiotic relationship that held the most promise for the optimal chance for survival.

This officer had not yet learned the lesson and maybe he . . . maybe all of them . . . would pay for it one day.

There was more cursing as the gambit with the machine gun failed and they lost a man.

Alwin Mehler had been a good man and Wilhelm regretted his loss and tried not to look as his bloodied body was dragged back into the window and laid to rest on the floor.

Lugwig, who was not so guarded with his eyes, openly stared at Alwin with an expression between horror and anger.

Then their leader was yelling again and they reluctantly went back to doing their jobs to win this war.

The anger and the loss were momentarily pushed away as all eyes tried to find the enemy.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

"Well, I say we go back!" argued Kirby, his forehead set in a frown and his top lip pulled back from his teeth.

Caje had settled on an outwardly calm façade that belied the increasing anxiety for his missing friends. "Sarge told us to be here when he comes. If he shows up and we're not here—"

"He ain't commin'! The only way him and Littlejohn are getting' out of there is if we go in and get 'em."

Caje rolled his eyes over to look at Doc. The medic had his usual anxious look on his face with his medical bag clutched in almost a death grip. His body was strung so tight that any sound would send Doc back out of the trees and back to the winery.

"We have to let the Lieutenant know—"

Kirby snarled. "With what? Littlejohn has the radio!"

Caje knew Kirby had a point. They didn't have the radio and Hanley needed to know about the machine gun.

The dark-haired man turned to Molrey, the quiet one. Molrey only raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn't been with this group long enough to feel like he was completely one of them yet.

"Molrey, get on back to the Lieutenant. Let him know what we found."

Kirby huffed and flopped around at his position in exasperation. "Now, don't that make a lot of sense? It took us from morning to mid-day to get here. It'll be dark before he gets back there."

Caje turned to Kirby. Kirby bitched – a lot. That was just Kirby when he was anxious, worried, or upset. However, Caje couldn't let it distract him from the job. "Molrey's going back because, like you say, we don't have a radio."

He turned back to Molrey with a nod. "Maybe you will run into some friendlies with a radio or a car. Just get back to Hanley as quick as you can."

"Yessir," replied Molrey as he climbed up from his prone position and looked through the trees for the best and fasted way to get out.

"Come on, Caje! The kid'll get himself killed out there by himself. Let me go."

Now, there was Kirby – a bitcher, but still a team player.

"Kirby, Sarge and Littlejohn are still down there with help probably a day away without a radio. You want to leave them now?"

The smaller man simmered over the question and then erupted. "No! 'Course I don't want to leave Sarge and Littlejohn."

Doc made a noise of agreement and they all three turned to watch Molrey slide through the trees and out of view.

Back to Hanley.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Sarge was a shorter man, but that didn't mean he was light.

Littlejohn finally came to a staggering stop in the middle of one of the paths between the vines and lowered the still unconscious man to the ground.

He was breathing heavily as he tried to spot the trees and found that they were still a good distance away. Too far to wait for Doc to have a look at Sarge.

Littlejohn looked back down at his Sarge with a concerned look.

Blood was still everywhere on Sarge. During the carry over his bulky shoulder, the blood on the NCO's face and neck had streaked to make weird patterns on his skin.

The big man dug out Sarge's personal med kit and did the best he could with the neck wounds.

There were small punctures dotting Sarge's neck and left side. His body had been protected somewhat by his uniform and jacket, but his neck had taken the brunt. Littlejohn muttered to himself as he tried to clean the hard to clean punctures.

Punctures were always hard to treat. They went under the skin, left only a small hole and trapped dirt deep inside. With wounds like that, tetanus was always a concern, so Littlejohn tried his best with them.

The wound of the Sarge's temple was a partial bruise and a laceration. It didn't look deep, but it was still oozing blood.

Littlejohn got out his own med kit and took care of the head injury. The bruise made him suspicious that his stupid grenade had forced the man's head against the wood, even with his helmet for protection. It would partially explain why his usually dynamic leader was still out of it.

All the other small tears and lacerations on the Sarge would just have to wait until they got to help. Hopefully, Caje and the others were still around.

When he was finished with Sarge, Littlejohn sat back with a groan and looked himself over. The bullet burn wasn't bad and only stung when he made sudden moves.

His poor boot, on the other hand, would need a new heel to be usable in the future.

The big man ran his brawny fingers over the lost chunk in the heel and snorted to himself.

Maybe he could talk his way into a new pair when they got back. He smiled for a moment only for it to fade when he looked at his motionless Sarge.

Littlejohn probably wouldn't have time to request new boots with all the digging he was gonna be doing in the near future.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

For the rest of the day, it was almost like a standoff.

The Germans were eager to go looking for the killers of Alwin, but were held back by the now overcautious man in charge. Somehow, he had concluded that there were more than two of the enemy outside of the winery and that they were waiting in ambush after using the two men as bait.

Why else would the large one charge into gunfire like a crazy man?

There had to be more out there.

Wilhelm rolled his eyes in frustration and tried to keep a handle on Lugwig's temper.

The younger man was ready to go, ready to come face to face with the enemy.

Wilhelm was sure this eagerness would wear off if Lugwig managed to live a few more months.

So, the German soldiers sat by the windows as their leader screamed into their OP radio about overwhelming enemy numbers.

"Zwei," muttered Lugwig causing Wilhelm to choke on a laugh.

Yes, they had only seen two men, but who knew the ways of officers and strategy?

It wasn't for Wilhelm to be a leader of other men. Men who would probably die in horrible ways someday.

No, he was glad it wasn't him in there yelling on the radio to officials that were no where near the small little war that was going on here at the winery.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Littlejohn spent his time dragging Sarge down the rows and keeping an eye out for friends and foes.

He was hoping to run into the friends first, but luck wasn't on his side right now.

Littlejohn stopped for a moment when Sarge's usually intent eyes opened to look blankly at the sky.

"Sarge?"

The shorter man just rolled his head from side to side to look at the grapevines with a furrow between his eyes. Like he was confused as to why he was there.

"Sarge, we're gonna find Doc and he's gonna take care of you."

The confused eyes rolled up to take in the big man leaning over him and Sarge just stared with an empty look that chilled Littlejohn to the bone.

Littlejohn was almost relieved when the lost looking eyes closed again and stayed shut.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Doc was getting so frustrated that he was organizing his medical bag again. He wanted to be sure, to be ready when the time came for them to find Sarge and Littlejohn. The Southern man muttered a few choice words as he raked his hands over his supplies and regretted that he didn't have twice as much. With men like these, the more supplies, the better.

Kirby was still behind his tree with his BAR and his heavy ammunition laid out in readiness. Every once in a while he would run a caressing finger over the big gun with a fond expression in his eyes.

He still snarled silently whenever Caje looked his way. Kirby was not happy to be sitting around waiting when there was trouble coming.

Caje managed to ignore both men as he scanned the darkening fields.

He wasn't happy to be sitting still either and was finally admitting to himself that the Sarge and Littlejohn were not likely to make it back on their own.

Caje looked at the time and hoped that Molrey had found someone with a radio or transport and was talking to Hanley right now.

He sighed when he realized, that with their luck, Molrey was now a prisoner of some Kraut or laying somewhere dead.

"It will be dark soon."

Kirby perked up at that comment from the Cajun. The hand that had been absently scratching his left armpit stopped.

The Cajun was sneaky on a good day but downright deadly in the dark.

"Won't be much of a moon tonight," responded Kirby with an eager tone. He was trying not to push now that Caje seemed to be coming around to his way of thinking. It was almost too hard for him not to push.

This waiting was for the birds.

Caje sighed. "You win, Kirby."

Kirby let out a quiet whoop of glee. "You hear that, Doc? I win! It's a red letter day for ol' Kirby. I gotta remember to tell Sarge when we catch up with him. Maybe write a few letters home."

"Kirby. Kirby!" called Caje when Kirby didn't seem to be winding down in his crowing. "We'll go back to where me and Doc last saw Littlejohn and have a look around. See if we can find him, the Sarge or the radio."

The Cajun let his dark eyes bore into Kirby's. "We will not engage if we see any Krauts. We go in, we find out what happened to Sarge and Littlejohn and we keep quiet. Got it?"

Kirby was so happy, he just nodded and started packing his ammunition for the move.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

Littlejohn thought of the radio he had hidden the next time he took a rest.

With a look around, he realized they were going in the opposite direction from where the thing was resting under the fresh green vines.

Sarge was gonna be furious.

The big man absently patted his unconscious sergeant on his good shoulder and stood once again to try to orient himself to the trees that were supposed to be the meeting point if things got rough.

In the gloom, he could see their swaying tops. They were still a distance away.

Littlejohn flopped back down by Sarge and was startled when the man moved. He got down closer. "Sarge?"

The eyes were open, but still confused. The noncom didn't even respond to Littlejohn's voice.

"Sarge?" he asked with a little more strength.

The blond head shifted to look up at the big man looming next to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but a streak of pain flashed across his face. It was gone before Littlejohn could comment on it.

Working a farm, Littlejohn had had his share of knocks on the head before even landing on Omaha Beach, so he knew when the sweat popped out on Sarge's skin what was coming next and helped the man onto his side.

Throwing up was never enjoyable. The experience was just ten times worse with a possible concussion.

Knowing Sarge, he wouldn't want any witnesses for this, but Littlejohn was staying close in case he choked.

When the gagging and spitting was over, the big man eased Sarge down the path to get away from the smell.

Thankfully, there hadn't been much on Sarge's stomach, so the bout of illness hadn't lasted for long. The last meal they had eaten was before they left that morning and lunch had been pushed back when they found the winery.

Right now, Littlejohn's rations were back hiding with the radio, so supper wasn't looking good at the moment.

"Wha' happened?" slurred a gravely voice.

Littlejohn patted Sarge's good side again. "Uh, you ran into some Krauts at the winery." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction of the winery as the confused eyes followed his movements.

"The winery?"

Definitely a concussion. Where was Doc when you needed him?

Sarge tried to roll over on his stomach to lever himself up, but Littlejohn firmly pushed him down. "I don't think you want to get up right now, Sarge. It might make you sick again."

Saunders actually moaned at the thought of being ill again. It was bad enough that Littlejohn was there and had watched the first time.

The one thing Chip Saunders hated most was being out of control – in relationships, in combat or life in general.

Instead of getting up, he let his hands roam over his head and neck. Saunders could feel the bandages and crust from dried blood. Some of the old blood flaked off as he pulled his hands away.

"You got hit," said the big man softly as he pushed the shaking hands away from the only bandages they had until they got to help. "Doesn't look too bad."

Sarge grunted and then squinted up at the dark sky. "Gettin' dark?" Now he was really confused. They were supposed to be back from the patrol by nightfall . . . and giving a report—

Hanley.

Radio.

Littlejohn.

Krauts.

Explosion.

Littlejohn knew the moment the noncom remembered because the Sarge's whole body tensed like it was getting ready for a fight.

"Littlejohn?" asked Saunders in a tight voice. A voice that said 'don't try to lie to me or I'll get up and sock you one.' "Where's the radio?"

The big man fidgeted slightly. He didn't want to upset the Sarge while he was wounded but he knew if he stayed silent, Sarge was gonna try to get up again. "It's . . . it's back at the winery."

Sarge went so still and lax that Littlejohn thought he had passed out again.

"It's back at the . . . winery." It wasn't a question, just a flat statement of fact in a sick voice. There was neither anger nor irritation in his leader's tone.

That made Littlejohn feel worse because he knew it was coming and he was never good at waiting or anticipating, especially when the outcome was going to be bad.

"What was . . . the mission, Littlejohn?"

Littlejohn fidgeted again. "The Lieutenant wanted us to have a look at the winery and check for Krauts."

"And?"

Big hands began to wring together. "And report back if we found the Krauts."

The Sarge let out a deep sigh that hurt his head. He was trying to keep it together, not for Littlejohn's sake, but for the sake of his throbbing head and touchy stomach.

"And how were we supposed to report?"

In a small voice Littlejohn replied, "The radio if we saw any Krauts or in person if we didn't."

Saunders closed his eyes in an attempt to clear the double vision of two soulful and sorrowful Littlejohns looking at him with twin pitiful expressions. They were both still there when he looked again.

"What will Hanley think . . . since we haven't radioed in?"

Sarge didn't think it was possible, but the sorrowful expressions sagged even more.

"That there are no Krauts."

The blond kept as still as possible, because if he moved even the slightest bit he was going to hit Littlejohn in his big nose. Then he would probably throw up again.

"Go get that radio."

Littlejohn straightened up suddenly. "What? I can't do that, Sarge! You can't be left."

The stormy eyes of his sergeant pinned him to his spot when the big man made a move to touch the wounded man.

"You will get that radio and contact the Lieutenant."

"Aw, Sarge—"

In spite of himself, Saunders moved. He sat up and clutched the front of Littlejohn's jacket. Before he could get any angry word out, his head began to swim and his eyes lost some of their focus.

Littlejohn had to grab quickly to keep his leader from flopping back on the ground.

They stayed locked in position as Sarge breathed heavily with his eyes closed and Littlejohn tried not to move him and restart the throwing up.

"Sarge," said the big man softly. "I can't leave you here like this. The Krauts might be out looking."

"Don't you . . . don't you give me that! Do you think we're here for our health? For my health?" Saunders gulped down the acid, cleared his throat, and then opened his eyes to glare at his soldier. "You go out there, get that radio and tell Hanley! You stop just one time and look back and I'll sock you when we get out of this."

The weak grip on Littlejohn's jacket tried to shake his bulk in emphasis. It only reminded them both that the Sarge was injured and not well enough to take care of himself in enemy territory.

Littlejohn opened his mouth to say something, anything, but was cut off.

Even wounded his Sarge had an intense personality that demanded attention.

"Just once and I'll have Hanley bust you down to ditch digger. You got me?"

There was a push. It was slight, but combined with the fury that lined his leader's face it was enough to push Littlejohn away and back onto his butt.

"Go!"

Before he knew it, the big man was scrambling to his feet and on his way back to the winery. He couldn't help it. Somewhere along the way in this war, his body had been conditioned to respond to the Sarge's orders without question. Questions could get you killed in the middle of combat so you followed orders without hesitation.

He was several strides away before he did what his Sarge told him not to do and that was to look back.

And he saw Sarge back on the ground, clutching his gut as the nausea tried to take over again.

He couldn't leave the man behind like this. Just one Kraut with a knife could take the man out in this condition.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Kirby knew he was good in the field. He could handle a rifle, his BAR and a basic knife or bayonet, whatever would let him survive until the next day in this hell. He was a scraper and a dirty fighter when he needed to be having learned it early in Chicago growing up.

But he knew Caje was a different sort of man.

Caje seemed to blend in with the darkness, become a part of it. If you put a blade, of any type, in the Cajun's hands and he was more deadly than any wild animal.

On missions like this, when it became necessary for Caje to do this, Kirby kept well back. It was partly due to not wanting to give Caje away to the Krauts and partly not wanting Caje to confuse him with the Krauts.

Another part of it was Kirby needed to stay with Doc. The medic was good in the field, but he wasn't subtle by a long shot. He was too used to charging headlong into battles to look for wounded to be too good at sneaking in the dark.

It was times like this, desperate and in the dark that he always thought of letter from Eisenhower before hitting Omaha Beach. The first line went something like, 'You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade.'

The language called up something noble and brave and almost made you see knights in shining armor.

Kirby wasn't feeling too brave at the moment and shrugged the feeling off as he followed Caje, making sure the Doc was right behind him in the night.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

His head was pounding, but his glare was still deadly as he glared at the big soldier next to him. The big soldier that wouldn't leave him behind to complete the mission.

"Come on, Sarge, just settle back down here," said Littlejohn. "I'll go get the radio. I promise."

"Shut it, Littlejohn."

"Sarge—"

The stare bored through the big man's head. "I'm going."

"You can't."

Sarge's hand on Littlejohn's shoulder tightened and his finger dug into his flesh. "If I have to tell you one more time to shut it, I promise you will not be happy for the next three months."

Littlejohn's mouth closed with a click of his teeth.

"Help me up," growled Sarge to cover the nausea and the dizziness.

Littlejohn took up a slightly bowed stance as he helped the shorted man gain his feet. He kept a firm grip on the Sarge's belt.

"The Thompson," demanded his leader.

With no argument, Littlejohn handed over the Thompson. Sarge took a moment to check it over before he was satisfied it was still in working order.

With the big man's shot off boot heel and the shorter man's dizziness, they looked like two drunken soldiers coming in from a long night in Paris as they staggered back toward the radio.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

"Can you . . . find it, Littlejohn?" asked Sarge as they staggered closer to the winery in the dark.

There was some light cloud cover over the stars and a bare sliver of moon hanging in the endless darkness of the sky. It was very good weather for stalking . . . and killing.

The big man looked around at the grape vines and nodded hesitantly. "It should be over there. Look, Sarge, I'm sorry—"

"Shut up," slurred his leader.

Littlejohn closed his mouth and tightened his hold as Sarge stumbled again.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Two German soldiers were finally outside the winery after the long wait for the rush of enemy soldiers that never came. They were ordered by their jumpy officer to look for sign of the Americans, and during the search, they found a silk camouflaged helmet near the old wine barrels.

Wilhelm could tell from the well-worn helmet and the bloody ground that at least one of the enemy was badly wounded. He held out the helmet to Lugwig. "Es steht schlecht um ihn."

They could hear their officer yelling on the radio in the winery again, his voice high with stress.

"Da ist nicht gut," said Lugwig. Even he knew that it was not good to have an officer that yelled loud enough for the whole of France to hear.

They looked around the dark earth, saw footprints, and drag marks that lead away from the side of the building and into the vines.

"Alle sind weg," said Lugwig.

Wilhelm was not so sure that the Americans were gone. He motioned for his young friend to accompany him back to their officer to report on what they had found.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

At the sound of Kraut voices, Littlejohn flung both of them to the ground.

Sarge saw stars when his side hit the dirt, but managed not to make a sound to alert the two slow moving Germans of their presence. Saunders motioned for Littlejohn to keep still as they muffled their heavy breathing from their sloppy trek.

Saunders stayed on the ground, curled up and panting quietly as Littlejohn tracked the two Krauts on their circuit around the winery grounds. The big private finally gave a brief nod to let his leader know that the two men were gone.

"Find that radio," quietly instructed Sarge, still on the ground, but holding up his Thompson for cover.

Littlejohn tried to be silent as he searched the young vines for the radio. His large hands patted the ground and the vegetation, trying to feel any metal to indicate where he stuffed the thing when he had disobeyed orders.

Sarge slowly dragged himself closer to the opening in the vines and watched, just in case the Krauts decided to search again.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

As Wilhelm and Lugwig entered the occupied building, their officer strode over and grabbed the American helmet from Lugwig. "Kommen Sie her! Ich will es."

It took all of Lugwig's control to not roll his eyes at his officer's lack of tact.

As their officer took in the blood and the tears in the silk of the helmet, Wilhelm cleared his throat and related what they saw behind the barrels . . . and the blood. "Es steht schlecht um ihn," volunteered the older soldier.

"Wie man's nimmt," responded their leader with a scowl. He scrambled away with the helmet and went back to the unit's radio. More yelling started soon after.

"Worauf warter er?" sneered Lugwig. One bloody American helmet and the officer was once again on the radio about overwhelming numbers to headquarters. What was he waiting for?

Wilhelm pulled the younger man away to get a little food and water while they could. The older man was proved correct in getting it while he could, when the officer yelled at them to go back out into the dark to find the hiding Americans.

With a sigh, the two men put down their food and went back out.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Littlejohn was almost giddy when his hand finally closed on one of the radio's straps. He dragged the unit out and almost talked aloud to get Sarge's attention until he remember where they were.

"Down!" hissed Sarge suddenly. "Krauts!"

Littlejohn flopped down and pulled the radio close to his body, determined to not loose the important item again.

Sarge never turned to look at him, his glazed eyes intent on the two Germans wandering around near the wine barrels once again.

Without waiting for his leader's signal, Littlejohn started to crawl closer to the man, his rifle and the radio in tow.

Saunders turned and almost placed his lips on Littlejohn's ear. "We've got to call the . . . Lieutenant," whispered Sarge, his voice barely audible in the night. "I'll . . . distract them. You call."

Littlejohn's large hand moved quickly to grab the stubborn man he followed in this war. "No," he whispered back, determined to win this time. "I can move quicker than you can, Sarge. I'll go, you call the Lieutenant."

Intent eyes stared at Littlejohn and the big man was almost afraid Sarge would go out to confront the Germans alone anyway. "You go . . . but you be careful about it. One wrong sound . . . and they'll all come out," gave in the NCO.

Littlejohn pushed the radio at the wounded man, picked up his rifle, and checked on his bayonet. Sarge handed him a grenade from the inside of his field jacket. Littlejohn looked up in surprise.

"Always . . . keep one back . . . for emergencies," said Sarge with a slight grin. But his eyes were hard.

Littlejohn nodded and slipped away from his wounded leader, listening to the quiet click of their radio and Sarge's soft voice calling in the position of the Krauts.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Both Germans whirled at the soft noise from the vines.

Lugwig started forward when Wilhelm's hand gripped his shoulder. Lugwig looked back at his friend. "Du Kommst mit, nicht wahr?"

Wilhelm wasn't so sure about going into the vines alone, without back up or reporting to their officer. He pulled on his younger friend, trying to get him to go back to the building.

But Lugwig seemed insistent on checking on the noise and broke free. He was tired of waiting to get into the 'real' war. He was tired of waiting in deserted buildings and listening to stupid officers.

Wilhelm saw the danger first, and moved to intercept the large American coming up from the vines like a figure of vengeance. He only had a moment to recognize the man that had sprinted to the wine barrels earlier before seeing a bayonet gleam in the low light.

"Geh!" yelled Wilhelm to Lugwig, pushing him to the building and the safety of numbers.

When Lugwig hesitated, all it took was Wilhelm to yell again as the older man raised his weapon to fire. "Hilda!" he yelled, hoping Lugwig would understand.

Lugwig ran back to the winery, calling for help, frozen with the knowledge that his friend was fighting for his life behind him. That he may have to tell Hilda that her brother was dead after this night.

A shot rang out.

And then more.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Caje and Kirby stopped at the same time, heads turned to catch the diminishing sounds of gunfire. The darkness seemed to scatter the sound, making it come at them from all directions.

"That way!" pointed Kirby, his B.A.R. automatically turning to point in the direction.

Caje nodded in agreement. "Kirby, stay with Doc."

"What? Wait, I'm going with you!" said Kirby with heat.

Caje disappeared into the thick darkness. "Keep Doc safe, I'll find Sarge and Littlejohn. Be ready when we come back this way."

"Ah, you can . . . you can just blow it out your ear, you Cajun!" hissed Kirby at the shadows. "I ain't no bobby-soxer to be left behind when things get hot!"

Doc wanted to protest as well that he didn't need a guard, but the Cajun was gone and he and Kirby were both left swearing.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

When the call to Hanley was over, Sarge kicked the radio away and pushed shakily up from the ground. One of his men was in trouble and he was going to help, wounds or no wounds.

He rose up to see a German fire at Littlejohn. The Kraut's shot missed, but Sarge's didn't as he opened up with his Thompson. The Kraut dropped to the ground, twitching as his life drained away onto the still warm ground.

Wilhelm whispered, "Hilda." His last word as his sightless eyes looked at the gloomy sky over France.

"Littlejohn, let's go! The other one . . . is probably getting the others. Grab the . . . radio."

Littlejohn, cursing his inability to keep the attack on the two Krauts quiet from those in the winery, turned and grabbed Sarge by his good arm to help him run and then grabbed up the radio.

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Sarge and Littlejohn hadn't gone a few feet when a dark figure blocked their path. Littlejohn brought up his rifle, glad he had slung the radio onto his back, when the form relaxed and spoke with an accent.

"I've been looking for you two."

"Caje," breathed Littlejohn, wanting to hold his chest in surprise. His heart was hammering. "I almost shot your head off!"

"No, my friend, you did not," replied the wily Cajun as he raised his own rifle. He jerked his head over his shoulder. "Kirby and Doc are back this way. Let's go."

With Caje in the lead, the small group kept just ahead of the Germans that poured out of the winery building looking for Wilhelm, Lugwig in the lead since their officer opted to stay behind at the radio.

Littlejohn stopped at one point to use the grenade Sarge had given him, not taking the time to muse on how a badly thrown grenade had gotten them into this situation to begin with.

A few more feet and Caje stopped the small group with a hand. "Kirby!" yelled Caje as they come upon the place where he left the B.A.R. man and the medic. "Don't shoot. It's us."

"Hey, Sarge, Littlejohn!" hooted Kirby as Doc rushed forward to help Littlejohn with the wounded man. "Am I glad to see you guys! We thought you two were goners!"

"Save it, Kirby. Let's get out of here," grunted Sarge as Doc tried to help Littlejohn drag him along and check his wounds at the same time.

It wasn't until they were at the trees that Sarge noticed something, or someone, was missing. "Where's Molrey?"

_**Combat! Saunders Doc Combat! Littlejohn Caje Combat! Kirby Hanley Combat!**_

Back with Hanley, that was how the Lieutenant liked Saunders and his group of trouble finders.

After a visit with the doctors for a few days, Saunders and Littlejohn was back where they belonged.

Saunders was shuffling around with a bad arm, bruised up ribs and a lingering concussion, but at least the man was walking. When Hanley heard the man on the radio in the middle of the night, reporting on Krauts in the winery, he had sounded more dead than alive.

Hanley lit a cigarette and took a long drag; his eyes squinted at the small group of men resting around an old dress shop, the wounded Sarge in the middle with a newly issued and silk camouflaged helmet on his blond head. It was tipped forward, a sure sign Saunders had his temper up about something.

The new guy, Molrey, had showed up with a wild tale of crazy French women and begging for a jeep soon after the radio call from Saunders. It was the most Hanley had gotten out of the new guy since he joined the 361st—no 'yessirs' and 'nosirs' when the man had skidded into Hanley's pseudo office to tell him about the trouble at the winery.

Doc was, at the moment and with Hanley's blessing, keeping close to the Sarge as the noncom slowly ate his rations, just in case Saunders got sick again.

The Lieutenant figured the rest of the men were just there to make sure Sarge didn't kill Littlejohn when he felt good enough to stand for more than a minute at a time.

Littlejohn, meanwhile, was nearby helping stack supplies in his undershirt, letting his high bullet burn show its white bandage in the sunlight.

It was better than digging, and the big man had eagerly volunteered as soon as the men had rolled out of bed this morning. Hanley couldn't help but notice the big man was avoiding his Sergeant like the plague since they returned from visiting the field hospital.

There was a story there, but none that went on the recon mission was talking to Hanley about it.

Hanley snorted when Littlejohn looked up to see Sarge glaring at him over a tin of something probably inedible on a good day. The big man quickly dove back into work, ignoring the bullet burn on his arm and his still wobbly right boot.

Ah, the enthusiasm of a soldier who knows he's in big trouble.

Doc looked up and Hanley gave him a wave to which Doc nodded in return.

Yes, with his number one Sergeant was on the mend, and trouble brewing for Littlejohn, it looked like there would be more trouble and grey hairs in the near future.

END


End file.
